Red wire, blue wire

By Alan Saldanha

Imagine a dream: You are a bomb demolition expert seated in front of an eyeball- popping contraption in the basement suite of a house at Jane and Finch in North York near Toronto. The neighboring area has been evacuated for three hundred meters. Nearby, within devastation range, is a three- building complex of eight story low- income condominiums.

Your job is to diffuse that bomb.

It is early November and the outside temperature is minus two Celsius. The lawns outside are covered with soft snow and the marks made by your boots as you entered.

It is hot and stuffy in the basement; the protective clothing you wear feels like a boiler suit. You take off your helmet because the beads of sweat trickling down from your forehead onto your eye lashes are blurring your vision.

In front of you the grayish, cast iron encased bomb threatens to wreak devastation.

On the panel of the bomb are two wires: One will detonate the bomb and the other will diffuse it. You have to select the right one.

Earlier, you were informed that the bomber committed suicide before they could capture him alive. He built the bomb and only he knew the configuration of the wires.

Which wire to yank out is now anybody’s guess!

You anxiously await another call. ‘Intelligence’ is hoping to locate some of the bomber’s acquaintances and interrogate them for more information. They are hoping that some shred of information will provide a key.

If the bomb goes off it will trigger a series of mass explosions through seven connected bombs, creating a chain of destruction. The explosion ought to be equal to one-tenth the destructive force of the nuclear bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The bombs have the capacity to blow up everything within a radius of two hundred meters.

You are a bachelor and have no kith and kin other than your Uncle Harry. If you die in the discharge of your duties someone else will step into your shoes and the show will go on. Real life bomb demolition experts are staid in comparison to their Hollywood counterparts.

People admire you and often make a big deal about the work you are engaged in. Your best friend has often asked you to call it quits and opt for another branch in the Army. He feels that you put too much at risk for $54,000 per annum. But for you, your job is an all- encompassing passion.

It all boils down to a choice: red or blue. Pull out the right one and you will diffuse the bomb. If you pull the wrong wire you will probably get a medal posthumously and have a large portrait adorned with flower wreaths. Wreaths are normally placed on a coffin but that does not make sense because there will be nothing left of you.

If the bomb goes off your next of kin - your mother’s brother -Uncle Harry will get your personal effects and a check along with the statement of accounts from the military authorities. Uncle Harry may have been the black sheep of the family but he was always proud of what you did for a living. He deserves to get the money.

There are 11 more minutes to go to detonation and the information ‘they’ have for you, among other things, is that the sixty- five- year- old left-handed man who made the bomb played soccer for his school. Suddenly, you decide to glean information and zero down.

He captains for the “Blue House.”

In those days private boarding schools were divided into four houses: Blue, White, Red and Green.

You have made your decision: You will pull out the blue wire!

Suddenly, an alarm goes off and you are awakened. Your mouth is open and your eyes move around in a pinball machine.

Phew! That was only a dream. But you are not relieved.

You squint as you look at the time. It is six o’clock. You utter a slang word and wobble towards the window.

You say “Shh…” and pull up the blinds.

“Shh…” indeed! This always happens at the best parts!

The writer is the publisher of Daywatch newspaper in Surrey, British Columbia. He can be reached at daywatchnewspaper@gmail.com.